


Brazen Rays to Kiss You, Boundless Heat to Kill You

by justawordwright



Series: Tales from the rusted desert [2]
Category: High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26987812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justawordwright/pseuds/justawordwright
Summary: To Mordred the sun is both life and death.Written based on the Mechtober days 13-15 prompt HNOC/Sunshine.
Series: Tales from the rusted desert [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970239
Kudos: 12





	Brazen Rays to Kiss You, Boundless Heat to Kill You

Sometimes, Mordred dreams of the sun. Not Avalon, not the sun the Saxons know, the orb of fire and life that they take pilgrimages to. No, the sun of the Inringers, the one the Saxons know as the _sweglcandel_ , the sky-candle. False and artificial and constructed. His first sun.

He hasn’t seen it in years, not since Morgan brought him into the bowels of the ship, the lightless guts of the station and the Saxon’s only haven, away from the Inringers. In a year or two, when he is old enough to join the warriors on their raids, to hunt with them, he will walk under its beams again. He will kill under it, and perhaps it will gain new meaning again, a more consistent meaning. For now though, he can only remember the time before, before Morgan found him, and of that he doesn’t remember much. There were warm hands to hold him, he remembers that. And soft words to teach him. Laughter and play and love. And all of it lit by that golden, warming light. Life giving. He remembers loving the sun, its glowing heat on his back as strong hands carried him aloft.

It is not like that in his dreams. In his dreams the sun is relentless, unforgiving. He dreams of a vast fiery death, a thousand spotlights bearing down on him. He dreams of the rust beneath his palms burning into blisters, the skin peeling off his cheeks. He dreams of lying, staring into its light, his eyes aching, and too dry to cry. He dreams of a throat too parched to scream, a silent mouth filling with dust.

He dreams of screams that fade away, of hands that go limp.

And the sun unending.

Those nights when he manages to wake early, shake the nightmares away before they truly sink their claws in, he stumbles out of bed, out of his tent, careful not to wake Morgan. He finds a quiet spot in the camp, and he sits and he stares up into the sky, into the vast inky blackness that surrounds them. There is no sun here, has never been a sun here. Will never be a sun here. His tears can be wet here, warm and salty, tracing secret lines across his cheeks.

Mordred stares into the emptiness, and hates that he wishes it gone. He misses the sun, his sun. He misses it kissing his face, gentle and warm. He misses the colour, the vibrancy, more than the greyscale of these lower levels. He misses the surety, the safety it brought with it. No shadows, no hiding, no quietness. He misses the way it fed life, plants bright and green and strong and edible, fresh from the hydro-farms.

He hates how he feels like that. That sun has stolen everything from him, he should not miss it, should not crave it. It is disrespectful, is selfish, is callous. He hates the sun. He has to, he must.

There is no other choice.


End file.
